The Blood Red Juice of the Pomegranate
by Not Human
Summary: Two old pros, in the city of blood and sin. The Salesman hires an Old Town girl as an assistant, and things quickly turn sour. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Will soon be rated M for language and mature content! You've been warned.
1. Chapter 1

_Pomegranate Seed 1_

This is a monster movie. In these deep and darkened streets, monsters hang around every corner, demons of every size, shape, color. Demons of lust, of revenge, of greed. They each serve their own purposes, but there are others; empty demons, waiting to be filled, the ones you can hire for money to give you pleasure, give you pain, give you a neat little tied-up ending. Most of Basin City is hitmen and prostitutes, which is what makes this story so typical. Romeo and Juliet, for these dirty times. This guy, though, this guy isn't some thug, some hired muscle named Spike or Hammer. In fact, this guy doesn't have a name at all. They call him the Salesman. This is what he sells.

Violence, black and bloody. As simple as the dark smudge around a close-range gunshot wound, or the clean lips of a knife slice. For the most part, this guy doesn't mess around. You want a guy beaten into submission, this guy doesn't care. He kills. No one survives him, and he's happy with that. Some say that makes him cold. I know better. When I met him, we Girls needed someone cold to make a kill, someone to just _Get Rid of Her_. It's not that he doesn't make them suffer first; sometimes, he does. It's just, that's not his love in life. I don't know if he enjoys it at all, but I do know it's not what gets him hot and bothered under those clean-pressed clothes of his. In that department, I happen to know he's just a regular guy, with an extra shot or two of self-discipline.

I would know. My name is Cheri. Sounds like Cherry in English, I know, and that was just fine in my line of work. I was one of the Old Town Girls, those throwbacks to the days when the streets still held some glamour, and the ladies of the night weren't sad, overworked meth heads with kids to support. Back when street girls looked after each other, held onto their territory with some scrap of honour, no back-stabbing, no bowing down to overdressed men in fur coats who took all our profits. We didn't have pimps. We had Wendy, and we had Gail. She was like a mother to us, a young, leatherette, gun-toting mama; she fed us when we were sick, she kept us safe from the odd wacko who wandered into Our Town. Gail taught us how to keep ourselves safe, and armed us to our teeth. After Wendy, she owned this Old Town, and we loved her for it.

So, after that awful business with Dwight and Jackie Boy, we needed someone to take care of that little tramp Becky. All that nasty business, that shit that went down between Gail and Manute, the dirty boys charging in, all of us having to wage a war against the bad men of Basin City, that was Becky's shit right there. I understand she was a scared girl, and she was one of our youngest; that certainly didn't escape Gail when she made her arrangements. I know she felt it was a failure on her part, but as I told her then, I was younger than Rebecca when I was thrown out of a speeding car and into this life, and I would never dream of selling the Girls out. I was fourteen when those animals took me for a joyride, fresh out of a childhood hell in the group home; I got picked up not two days from home, beaten, degraded, and left for dead in the streets just outside the Old Town. Gail heard me, and I thank God every day that she did. I would have died without her help. She raised me up out of the garbage I'd been born into, she taught me how to take care of myself, how to respect myself in a disrespectful world. Becky threw all that away, and when Gail decided that little loose end had to be snipped, I understood.

They call him the Salesman. I don't know how Gail found him. I remember hearing the odd vague myth about him over the ten years I'd been working Old Town, but I guess Gail knows what's fiction and what's not. By the time the twins were separated by murder, I'd been there a decade, and I was one of those respectable, well-known girls. I don't know if Gail felt as attached to me as I did to her, but I do know she trusted me enough to let me in on this plan. In fact, someone was needed to make contact with him outside Old Town, and since Gail would light up like an alien out there, where he wanted to see her, she decided to send me. I guess I clean up nice.

It must have been some kind of test, to see if we were serious about contracting him; Gail got word that he wanted to meet at the Palais Royale, a fancy little dancehall in downtown Basin City. After the cold shot she got from the mob, Gail wasn't eager to show her face in that kind of public just yet, but I look like a fairly decent girl, for a hooker. All my tattoos are hidden under my clothes, I kept my hair long. I managed to cover most of my scars from my old life, too, so all I really had to do was come up with something nice to wear, and someplace to keep the wads of hard cash we'd be paying him with. I had no idea what he'd look like. That's not how hitmen make their money, you know, advertising their appearance. Word was, he'd be wearing a white rose.

It wasn't part of the agreement, but I took a white rose too, just in case. Some of our girls scout rummage sales at the local churches, and we'd come away with some surprising loot over the years; Sammy, our blond gangster girlie, happened to have a nice little number in my size, some swingy black dress with a low-cut neck. Perfect for dancing. Not that I dance, really, unless my guy of the evening wants me to, and then I'm usually not wearing much anyway, but this was a special occasion. We had a funeral to plan.

The cash was in a bundle next to my thigh; luckily my skirt was full enough to hide the bulge. My weapon of choice was on the other leg, but it was hardly big enough to graze the old satin; a Glock, I don't remember now exactly what make. One of the lighter choices, for a night on the town. No metal detectors in this part of the city.

It was dark when I arrived, fresh from a taxi; I had a white evening clutch, and that rose pinned into my black hair. I was starting to get nervous now, as I saw all the society ladies of the city swaying across the floor in their gowns light as air, but I sucked up my terror and went inside. No guys with white roses pinned to their lapels, save one; some young cutie in the back corner, dark enough to hide his face, the white rose lit up by the candle on his table. He sat alone, as I guess is the way of assassins.

He didn't look up at me as I got close; he seemed to be watching the dancers swirl around that jagged music they play.

"Mind if I sit down?" I asked, trying demure on for size. His head shifted ever so slightly, and he gestured to the seat next to him. Back against the wall, just the way I like it. Still didn't look me in the eye.

Our handsome young man took the rose from his lapel and laid it on the table. He looked to be about my age, which seemed a bit young to be a killer for hire; then again, I was a fuck for hire, so I really had nothing to say.

"You a Salesman?" I tried. After I said it, I thought it would have been nice to have some kind of code word to use, because then his head snapped away from the dancers and those dark eyes finally fixed on me. Now, I didn't know the man, but that seemed angry.

"You looking for something to buy, sweetheart?" he asked sharply.

"I – I dunno, what do you got?" I stammered. He snickered, and looked back to the floor.

"Why don't you beat it, honey – I got no time for whores tonight, and this is no place for a filthy spring chicken like you."

I was taken aback – I mean, who talks to an Old Town girl like that? Stupid question, of course we're all whores, but we own ourselves and I wasn't there to make friends. I reached under the table and grabbed for the one thing a man has in this world that he can't stand to lose – the family jewels. He sucked a breath as I leaned in.

"No, honey, you listen. My name's Cheri, and I came here for Gail. Town's too hot for her these days. I was looking to make a deal with some muscle, but I'm starting to wonder if you're the kind of Salesman I'm in the market for. You follow?"

He nodded, seeming subdued, until he reached under the table and twisted my wrist away from his soft parts.

"Sorry for the misunderstanding, Cherry," he said, and I could tell right away that to him, I'd be Cherry, not Cheri, for as long as we were associated. He didn't let my hand go. "I like your style, but be gentle. It's been a while since a pretty girl has held me like that."

I opened my mouth to correct him on the Cherry/Cheri business, but a sharp squeeze on my bones under the table discouraged that. Cherry it would be, then.

"As long as we have business, let's stay here, enjoy the atmosphere. I assume it's you contracting me, and not the other way around?"

The professional flirt in me was tempted to ask what he'd prefer, but like I said, I wasn't here to make friends. I nodded.

"Good. Let's have a drink."

He let go of me, and used that hand to flag down a waiter. We both got gin and tonics, as per his request, though if asked, I would have preferred ginger with mine. I guess a gentleman always orders for his lady.

"So you have a problem you need solved?" he asked after the medicine was delivered.

_Just what did they discuss?_ I wondered. "Yes, we do. Little girl named Becky, she sold us out to the worst players in town."

"What do you mean, little girl?" he interrupted.

"She's our youngest right now. Seventeen."

"Seventeen's a bit young."

"To die, or to suck cock for a living? I started the latter a few years younger than her, and I still never handed my sisters over to the man."

"That's a mean break," the Salesman said in what may have been sympathy. "She's not too young to die in my books, to clarify."

"And you've probably made it with a few of our girls yourself, so I'm glad to hear you're not as two-faced as the dicks who trashed our town."

"I don't frequent prostitutes."

"You just kill for us?"

"If you have the capitol."

"That we do," I said, guiding his eyes below the table, where I'd just held his manhood in my hand, and he'd just bent my bones in his. I lifted that shiny black skirt to show the money, and he nodded, satisfied. Even put his hand down there to touch it – the money, not his manhood, or my leg. I want to say I felt electricity charge through the paper from his fingertips, but I didn't. If there's one thing that can come between a man and a woman successfully, it's money. I can't say what he felt.

"That ought to do the trick," he said.

"Good. What else do you need from us?"

"What else can you give me?"

I smiled my slow cherry smile, and I swear he may have blushed; in some other life, that is, where he wasn't a killer and I wasn't a prostitute. In this one, we both wore masks to hide that sort of thing.

"I don't suppose you'd know where I can find her?" he said.

I laughed. "No, she doesn't check in with us since she nearly got us killed." I thought for a moment. "She got hurt, I know. Gail almost – well, anyway, yeah, she got hurt. Her arm."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," I said, before I realized he meant _hurt seriously,_ not _are you serious?_ But it was yes, either way. "I forget what happened now, but it's serious enough that she can't use it without some kind of cast or something."

"You weren't there," he guessed.

"Yeah, sort of. I was heading up an attack from the rooftops, she got hit down below. Before that, Miho and Dallas took off to find the guy who started all this, and that left me in charge of weapons for a while."

"Sure you don't want _him_ dead?"

"No, look. He didn't start it, not like that. Becky betrayed us for a lot of money. That's it, that's all, big guy. This other one, he's a friend of ours." I paused. "Why, you having second thoughts about doing a kid like her? She gave us up like a big girl, if that helps you at all."

The Salesman chuckled at that. "I never think twice."

"Good. I guess finding her is part of your job."

"I guess so. This Becky got a last name?"

"Sure does. I don't know what it is, though. We call her Langley."

"I'll assume Langley's it. A girl's got to have two names to get around this town." The Salesman finished his drink, after seeing that mine had disappeared some time ago. "We won't talk like this again."

"Oh, no? How will we know you're done?"

"Becky will be dead."

I laughed. "Well, honey, Old Town girls don't tend to make the Obituaries."

He smiled, indulgently, and settled back into his seat. His hand again dipped under the table, and my years of training prevented me from jumping as he wrapped his fingers around the cash. He left it there, though, and withdrew.

"I can't take this now," he murmured. "Later, outside. Care to dance, before we part?"

I lifted an eyebrow, and smiled my little smile. I don't dance unless I'm being paid. This would be a first for me. "Do you size up all your lady friends this way?" I asked.

He rose and offered me his hand. "Yes," he said.

In the light I could see his face, and he was the prettiest boy I'd ever danced with. We spun around the floor, looking like young lovers or old friends, and here, he never took his eyes off me. He was an excellent dancer, sure and careful of me. Attentive. I don't get a lot of attention like that. When the dance was over, he lifted my fingers, on the hand he'd twisted under the table not so long ago, and kissed them. Yeah, I could see how a woman could fall for this. Luckily, I was a professional myself; my trade was lust and affection, while ultimately, his was violence and death. I would not be so easily seduced. So said I.

"Let me get you a taxi," he whispered in my ear. He sounded almost breathless, which is a perfect way to set a woman at ease, or on fire. My God, when had I become a mark to him?

And what could I do, but mark him back?

We'd need to go somewhere away from this golden light and silver music – the Palais Royale is not the place for lifted skirts and fumbled trousers. He walked me ten minutes along a bare path into the woods, and set me against a thick tree in the dark. Blue moonlight filtered through the leaves and painted us the colour of the dead and gone. For most of the time we spent in the trees, I wasn't sure what was going to happen next. I knew what it would look like to others, what we intended it to look like – but if there was a plan, he held the blueprints. After we entered the dark of the wood, I was just along for the ride.

I gasped when he lifted my skirt, and that was only partly a line long rehearsed with other, nameless men. Finally, it was business, _his _business, when he slid the money out of my garter and stuffed it into the lining of his jacket, casually pressed against me. This looked good; it must. A breathy young female, pinned by a handsome young male; it was the way of nature. This would look like my business, now. It did, when he dipped again, unexpectedly, and intimately touched my other leg – my gun leg. He smiled as he felt the steel, warmed by my body on the inside, cold on the outside. He lingered there a moment longer, and I worried that he'd disarm me, take away my claws. I'd need those, getting back to Old Town. But he stayed away from my gun, and my warmest, softest parts; just leaned against me, breathing into my hair. We were old pros, and on him I couldn't tell what any of it meant; another man's dead giveaway could be this guy's greatest weapon. After a moment it ended, the act, and he stepped back to make a show of putting himself back together. I haven't made it with a man of my choice in a long time, but this was what I imagined it would feel like after. Good, like. Almost.

He walked me back to the Palais and flagged a taxi for me, as promised. He offered to drive me himself, but giving my address to a hitman seemed a bit insane. He wasn't surprised by my refusal. I supposed he could find me, anyway, if he wanted to. Just go to Old Town, ask for Cherry. I've got no reason to hide.

* * *

Author's note:

Hi, and thanks for reading! As you can see, this is based on the movie Sin City rather than the books. I don't know if all the facts are right, so if anything's glaringly off, please let me know, politely. I don't have thick enough skin for rudeness, I'll just break down, trust me. Those who know my other stories in the Batman Begins fandom may notice that the language of the prose is a bit messier than I usually write, and that's because Cherry's a tough sort of girl who grew up in Old Town. She changes a lot through the story, too, so keep your eye on her. The rating is for language and mature situations. Hope to see you at Seed 2.

-nH


	2. Chapter 2

_Pomegranate Seed 2_

That was just what he did.

A day later, I was standing in the rain, making my pay under a red umbrella. My shift was coming to an end, but the weather didn't do me any favors, so I thought I might just extend my stay on the streets tonight. Nothing comes free in this town, know what I mean? The streetlights painted the pavement in orange smears, like chalk on a wet blackboard, and it made the road even lonelier than usual. I knew Miho was watching us from her perch on the rooftops, as always, but still – not much she could do if someone sped up and grabbed me, or threw a bullet my way as a thanks for doing this job. You'd be surprised how many people hate the idea so much they'd kill for it. Well…maybe not too surprised.

Usually I work the hook with a partner; I don't do doubles, but it's dangerous being out here by yourself. The line-and-sinker is something a girl does solo, but the hook always makes you a target. My partner of the evening was out sick, though, and I needed the cash, so tonight I was all alone. I was just thinking I'd need to take out a loan for groceries this week when a black Lincoln pulled up in front of me, windows dark and engine rumbling steam in the orange light. It was a pricey ride, and I thought my luck just might be changing when I sauntered up to the passenger window.

"Hey, honey, something I can do for you?" I called. I saw a male outline against black glass when the window rolled down. His face was shadowed, but he held up a sheath of bills in the streetlamp's light before tilting his head to invite me in. I'd like to say I knew this one was different, that my carefully honed street instincts didn't fail me, but that'd be a lie. It felt like getting into a regular john's car. I was just shaking out my umbrella and closing it up when he spoke.

"You didn't tell me she had a mother."

Now I felt electricity – a jolt up my spine, even before I saw those cold black eyes. "Everyone has a mother, hon," I answered, turning to face the Salesman. "Did you, or didn't you?"

Some fine muscle along his jaw tightened. "I did."

"Was it a problem?"

"I don't like to know about them before I do it."

"So why are you pissed that I didn't mention her mother? You should be mad at yourself for finding out, I reckon."

"I found out by accident. I'm just yanking your chain anyway. I came back to see you. Let you know the job was done."

I nodded. "Thanks," I said. I lifted a black arched eyebrow in that way I have about me. "Is there…anything else I can do for you, handsome?"

He laughed and kept his eyes on the empty road in front of us. "I didn't come all the way to Old Town just to hand back your money for something I can get for free, Cherry. You look like a virgin, has anyone ever told you that?"

I blinked. No one had, or has since. "Well, ah…I guess thanks are in order, then. Though I'm not sure how to take it…"

"You're a whore, so I'd take it as a compliment."

"Then, thanks," I said, though my heart skipped a beat.

"I would never know what you were, if not for this," he said, abruptly brushing my hair back to trace the scar along my jaw. This time I did jump. "Becky looked like that too, scar aside."

"We stay fresh, for a while. You should see Gail, for fresh. She looks more like the devil's Wonder Woman than a hooker."

"You shouldn't tell me that, Cherry. You shouldn't have told me your real name, in fact." His eyes were blacker than the tar sky above us, and I shivered. If he asked, I'd tell him it was the rain, chilling me.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Because you need to be careful, in your line of work. Do you know my name? Do you have any idea where I'm from, or how old I am? You should be that careful with yourself. I shouldn't have been able to find you."

"You're a professional, you would have found me anyway…"

"But it wasn't hard, Cherry. Not at all."

"So, what's the cash for, if not my charms?" I said, taking the focus off how easy it is to find a ho in Old Town. Didn't seem like an argument I could win, is all.

The Salesman accepted my move, and looked back out the windshield. "It is for you. But if you want it, you'll have to do something more for me than…"

"Get your rocks off?" I volunteered. I had a few dirtier terms in me, but he didn't look to be in the mood.

"Right," he smiled. "I need your skills. Just not those ones."

I glanced back down to the money lying in his lap. Nice slacks, too. He woulda been a good client; he woulda tasted okay, I thought. After years of doing things this way, it was hard to know which of my wants were genuine, and which were professionalism. After a moment of consideration, incidentally gazing at his package without really seeing it, I decided I was just being my old pro self. "What do you want?" I said, quiet.

"Now, don't be like that. You're a sharp girl and I can give you a better life, that's all. No more waking up to hard and strange cocks in the morning, no more sticky hair to wash out at night. All I need is assistance."

I took my eyes off the prize and faced him. "What do you want?" I repeated.

He looked right back at me, the Salesman, the dealer of death in small quantities all over this filthy town. I was sure he was the most dangerous man in the country, then, and sometimes, he looked fresh out of high school. "I need someone I can trust to do whatever I tell her to."

"That's my job already, sugar."

He smiled again, all shark, no human. "Full time," he said. "Outside this Old Town."

"What makes you think I want to leave this town?"

He paused, one pro to another. "Aren't you sick of pretending?"

"What makes pretending for you any better?" I countered.

"You won't have to take your pants off for me, get it?" he said. "What have you got waiting for you out there, Cherry? You going to go to medical school, get your license? You're a hooker, through and through. I can take you away from giving your body up to the rats. Trust me, it'll keep you fresh for a few years longer. Sweetheart, if you ever want out of this life, I'm your ticket. Your only choice."

It was a stunning thought, and if left me numb and blue. When I woke up to Gail's nurture and first learned my trade, I never thought I'd live this long. Lasting ten years made me wonder if maybe I should have some kind of plan, for my old age. I couldn't see myself hanging on like Gail, and she really isn't that much older than me anyway. What if the impossible happens, and I'm not murdered young? How was I going to live, then? There isn't enough money hooking in Old Town to keep a life going forever.

"I'll talk to Gail," I said, barely above a whisper.

"And I'll come back for you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Jesus, mister, you don't waste any time, do you?"

"I don't, and neither will you." He paused, and started his car again. "If you're not here, I'll assume you've turned me down."

"And then what? Forget all about me?"

"No. I wouldn't forget."

Now _that _was a threat if ever I'd heard one. He tossed me a smile as I stepped out of the car, though, so maybe he was joking. Maybe not. Dead giveaways on other guys could have been his greatest weapon.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading this far! There's a lot more to come, and I hope to get some reviews for some of it. Let me know how it's going. 

-nH


	3. Chapter 3

_Pomegranate Seed 3_

Well, she wasn't thrilled, I won't lie. Gail knew sometimes the girls have to leave, though, so it was alright, after a while of argument and tears. I told her where I'd be going, and I told her to keep that to herself. She knows the value of a secret.

I handed in my keys, packed up my weapons, and that was that. Hugged Gail goodbye. That was hard. I didn't know if I'd ever be seeing her face again. Didn't know if I'd be seeing any of them again, Dwight or Wendy, or Molly who stitched up my face that time I got cut. My God, goodbyes are probably the hardest thing a girl can go through. I thought I should probably go alone, y'know, so no one gets murdered tonight, and that goodbye in the basement of my building passed in the blink of an eye. I wondered what I was doing this for.

Because he might kill me if I refuse. I guess once the Salesman makes an offer, you have no choice but to take it, huh? Or maybe he was joking about that, which means the only reason I'd be leaving is to make more money, make myself a real life. Helping a guy kill people. Is it any worse than helping dozens of guys get off every night?

I waited under that orange streetlamp with a lady's hard-side suitcase full of guns, blades and lace, clutching my arms through my thin coat. Years I'd spent outside, in the cold, wearing next to nothing and not feeling it, but tonight I was freezing. The rain had stopped, at least; dry dead leaves swept around the buildings behind me and rattled on the asphalt like bones. This was a lonely corner, but every night before this I'd had my sisters behind me in one way or another. Tonight it was lonely for real, because…well, because I was alone.

When his car pulled up, I got nervous all over again. It waited, no horn, no getting out to help me with my bag. I crept up to the back door and loaded my case inside, then got in the front. And that was that. Simple, really. That's how you leave your life behind.

He didn't talk as we drove into the city. That left me to think about consequences, and be terrified of my future. If he noticed that, he didn't say. He wasn't there to comfort me, anyway. He was there to give me exact instructions, and I was there to follow them to the letter. A terrible wave of homesickness welled up inside me, and I swear I almost threw up. Instead I swallowed, because that's what I do. My sadness went down my throat, into my guts, and I stared out the window at the cold passing city until it all became a blur.

The ride ended in the heart of Basin City. People everywhere, few of them whores. Not the city I was familiar with. This time he did take my suitcase, after parking underneath a brightly lit white high rise. I really was going to live in an ivory tower, I thought, and almost laughed.

"You travel light," he said, finally, in the gold mirrored elevator.

"I don't need much," I managed. I was afraid I'd choke on whatever words would come out of me first, but my voice sounded okay; small, but okay. He nodded.

"You'll need some clothes. Actual clothes. Can't have you looking like a prostitute all the time anymore." He took a moment to look at me, thoughtful. "You'd do well to continue to hide that scar, like you do. I like the girl-next-door thing you've got, it's attractive."

He has a non-sequiter way about him, I thought. "I'll go shopping…tomorrow?" It ended up a question because I didn't know what tomorrow would be like anymore. He nodded again. All my tomorrows were in his hands, now.

Turned out he lived in a condo, some of the time, and that was where I'd be staying now. Nice and generic, no personal touches I could see. Left me there that first night with a packet of bills for shopping the next day. Suitable clothes, he said. He'd call me when he had something for me to do. Scary thought, that he hired me without knowing why. Like he just wanted my company. That's not true, I know now, it's just the nature of the business that you don't know when you'll be contacted. At the time, the thought gave me a moment's pause, but I got over it when I realized he wasn't interested in my body.

Already, after half an hour outside Old Town, I'd lost the fine art of making men want me. He was gone for the night, and I spent that evening convincing myself to never let my guard down with him or anyone; that meant never forgetting what I was capable of. My best bet in life was reading men, and being okay with a crowd of them closing in on me. If I could handle a crowd, I could handle one guy, surely. Even this guy.


	4. Chapter 4

_Pomegranate Seed 4_

After the initial week or so of crushing regret, life was okay. I was his go-between; the client saw my face instead of his, spoke to me on the phone instead of him. I didn't have to do anyone myself, just take the money – half up front, half afterward. Or a cheque. Surprised me that he took those, but after a while I handled the bank account too, so I saw how faceless this city will let you be.

For the first time in my life, I wore pants to work. I wore nice clothes, suits in gray and black. I was warm in cold weather. No men got to handle me like a ripe tomato; for all they knew, I was a regular girl, worth as much as the next. It was strange, at first, going for days, then weeks, then months without any sex for any reason, but I got used to it. I never dated. I didn't know how, and I wasn't interested anyway. I don't know what he would have said if I'd suggested dating another guy. It was clear that he wasn't my boyfriend, of course, but it would have felt unfaithful, somehow. We couldn't trust the outside, anyway; heck, we could barely trust each other.

Six months passed like that. I made deals with people, some desperate for freedom, some just malicious bankers, and he sealed them. I never saw his work. It wasn't my place. On the rare occasions that he'd stay at the condo, we slept in separate bedrooms, and he'd usually be gone by the time I rose. He'd leave notes on paper, or messages on my phone, depending on the urgency. I don't know how he sniffed out the deals, but once he did it was my job to make contact; with that and the fair amount of incoming calls I got, we made quite a nice sum of money during our time together. Nothing like money to come between you and your conscience.

After I'd grown accustomed to sleeping alone, he dealt me the sneakiest backhand I'd felt in years.

I've spent most of the time between that night and now trying to figure out his motives, and I've got myself a theory. Time will prove its worth, I guess.

It was the end of a quiet month, only two jobs in the past few weeks. We were doing okay, so it was a nice little vacation from all the law-breaking and commandment-wrecking. I didn't see much of him during that time, but one night, he showed up at the condo; not odd in itself, but something was off in him. He looked like a man on a mission he wasn't sure about. I could relate to that feeling, but it shocked me to see that…I don't know, _fear_ in him. It was like he was about to mix two chemicals together, and he wasn't sure what kind of explosion he'd end up with. I asked him what was up. As ever, he didn't mess around.

"I want you to do your job," he said. "With me."

I was a little confused at first; I had just gotten used to taking money from people and leaving names for him. "You want me to…take your money, and hire a hitman?" I asked.

"Not that job," he said, shaking his head. "I should have expected that. No, I hired you to do everything I ask."

"And I have, haven't I?"

"To the letter, of course. I'm so close to trusting you, Cherry."

Ah, finally, my skills came back into play. I could read him now. It was a shock, and almost a disappointment.

"I…I don't do that anymore," I said uncertainly, surprising myself.

He took my chin in his hand and made me face him; I gasped. "You work for me, so you do whatever I ask you to."

"I'm not a hooker," I argued, against my own judgment. What was I doing, trying to refuse? Was I nuts?

He hushed me, but held on to my face. "You are," he assured me, stepping in close, sneaking his other hand into my hair. "You're_mine_."

"Okay," I agreed, finally. The sooner I made peace with it, the better I'd feel. I came to that realization at a young age. "I'm yours. What do you want me to do?"

The Salesman let go of me, stepping away and sitting down. That strange look came over him again – that look of _what are we doing here?_ I almost felt bad for him; no, I _did_feel bad for him, looking lost like a puppy. Maybe I told myself to feel that way, to help with the job; but in the end I felt it, so what does it matter?

He gestured vaguely – weakly. "Treat me like a customer."

I took a breath, to get back into the character I'd left behind six months ago. He seemed to be having trouble looking me in the eye. I'd seen this before, on first-timers, or very young men. I remembered then what he'd said to me when he'd made his offer – I looked like a virgin. _Who looks like a virgin now, honey? _

That was it, that little bit of derision that helps us do our jobs; feel sorry enough for someone, and you can talk yourself into doing just about anything to him. I smiled and kept that gem of a secret at the front of my mind as I knelt before him.

"I thought you weren't supposed to kiss," he said when I leaned in.

In Old Town, it's to each her own, but I didn't tell him that. "Softens the blow," I murmured against his lips. One second of soft breathing, and he didn't care about supposed-to's anymore. Like I've said before, he's just a regular guy, under those clothes.

I worked him up for a while, through his nice slacks – he was a high-end job, after all. He seemed not in the mood for a good time, until something I did must have hit the switch; he took his time getting to the hot-water point, but finally he sucked in a breath for me. Just like the first time I grabbed him like that, but I was nicer this time, and he wasn't pissed off. I don't like to rush it, if we've got all night; no point unzipping if he hasn't risen to the occasion yet. Now he did, so I followed suit.

It struck me how fragile men are, as I undid his pants and gave him a kiss that made him gasp in what sounded like shock. For all that talk of being able to get it for free, I wondered if he ever made time for it; he was so hard, I was afraid I'd chip a tooth. I risked a glance at his face as I buried him in my throat; he sure looked like a regular date, eyes closed, hands gripping the arms of his chair and relaxing, gripping and relaxing. Some guys like to grab my hair when I do this part, like they're trying to escape through the back of my skull. He didn't. I wondered if that was respect, or if he just wasn't sure he'd be able to stop from suffocating me. He is some kind of killer, you know. I swallowed him whole anyway; he was big, but not all too big. About the right size for a guy who guns down people in the night, I guess. I smiled at the thought, around his cock. _Good thing he's not psychic. Hope he isn't, anyway. _

That went on for a while; like I said, I like to make it last if I know that I'll be getting a good amount of dollar signs, or if my life depends on the result of my efforts. Both of those applied here. He didn't appear to be armed right now, I noted as I stole another glance at his body, but I could hardly be sure of that at the moment. Despite my attempts to prolong it, he seemed to be getting closer. I hoped that was something he was aiming for; I've faced more than a few angry johns who weren't ready for their fifteen bucks to be up so soon. Like it's my fault they're quick on the draw. I got ready for the inevitable hot shots to the back of my throat; he might murder me, so it's probably best to swallow. I watched his face for the final signs, but before he got there, his eyes snapped open like he'd just had some huge idea. He took my face now and lifted me off him; I thought maybe he wanted to come in my hair or something, but he surprised me again by pushing me back onto the carpet.

"Now, honey," I said, trying for playfulness and probably sounding as terrified as I was, "what's going on? You can't just stop me in the middle like-"

"Shut up," he snapped. He softened it with, "Hush now, miss. No talking."

I opened my foolish mouth to say _okay_, but stopped myself in time. The Salesman hovered over me, and with relief so strong I could have touched it with my hands, I realized what he meant to do. That sudden stop made me think I was about to be killed, but he just wanted to fuck me. Thank God I'm a professional.

I was sure he'd go in for the kill – so to speak – but he surprised me again by touching me first. The memory of dancing with him at the Palais came back to me; he was curiously attentive during the sex act too, it seemed. I tried to relax, but terror is a hard thing to overcome, especially when you're half naked on the floor under a murderer. He slid two fingers in, and I sighed. Thank heavens I was soft, and warm, and apparently ready. He seemed pleased too, and it felt as good as it was likely to under the circumstances. I might be able to perform, and that could extend my life by a few years more. At least he probably wouldn't be killing me tonight, especially if he liked it. I prayed, prayed he would.

I guess he liked me enough, because he was still almost painfully rock hard when he entered. That excitement I'd felt, pressed up against the tree as he took his money that first night, came back to me. Stars, and hitching breath, and my, I think I might do alright tonight after all. I moved with him, and saw that his eyes were open and staring at me. Wanted to keep me there, I guess. Maybe make sure he remembered I wasn't someone he was supposed to kill afterward. I tried not to let that thought scare me away from the finish line. Luckily he was moving in such a way that it would be okay, it could be easy to make it there. It was like dancing, and pretending in the woods, all over again; except this time there was contact, that quick repetition of pushes and pulls, that sweet friction between us. He could have come a few minutes earlier, but he held back for me. Force of habit, maybe. I heated up, and moved under him at the same time he got hot and moved over me; I had no name to call him by, so I stuck to breathing heavily, jaggedly. My hands clutched for a second afterward, scared, one clawing at the carpet and one clamped on his arm.

The first second after the end passed by, and I survived, so my hands relaxed and I let him go. He withdrew from me, and if I'm having an okay time it's always kind of a sad moment. But it was gone soon enough, and I picked up my panties as he zipped up his trousers. He sat back in the chair, and stared off into space. I thought of creeping away into the shower before he remembered I was there, but he beat me to it.

"Thanks," he said, absently. He was still catching his breath; we both were. I sat on the carpet at his feet, skirt up around my waist, underwear in hand. He looked like he'd just been in a fight, or run up a flight of stairs. I looked like I'd just been fucked. That's the way of nature, I guess. If that had been a fight, I'd never know who'd won.

"Sure," I said, breathless. I watched him the way a rabbit watches a fox – it could happen at any moment now, right? The kill. He could decide he picked the wrong girl, I'm just a whore, and get rid of me before I spill his secrets all over town. I could fight him off for a few minutes, maybe, make it to one of my many little defenses strewn around the condo. If he'd ever noticed the knives and guns all over his place, he never said anything about it. I checked on them every day, real quiet. You don't take chances when you're with a contract killer. For the moment, he didn't make a move on me, but he noticed me watching. He waved a hand.

"Go," he said. "I'll use mine, you go ahead."

The bathroom, I assumed. I had a butterfly knife and my little Glock in there – smaller weapons for a smaller room. If he decided to kill me in the shower, at least I'd have a fighting chance. I hoped.

I rose, and glanced back at him from my bedroom door. My fears seemed unfounded, in the relative sense; he still sat there, thoughtful, but empty, eyes somewhere far away. He wouldn't do anything more to me tonight, I realized. Screwing me had been his big attack.


	5. Chapter 5

_Pomegranate Seed 5_

For the first time in a while, I really felt like I was scrubbing myself clean.

It took forever for all that stuff to come out of me – I used protection in Old Town, one of the things that'd kept me 'fresh' in all the years I'd worked it. No protection here, not with him. Since that night, I've been thinking, and I'd bet that was the message he was sending me – _no protection, Cherry, not with me or from me. _I guessed I'd be keeping some armor around this place too, now. That space between the sofa cushions was about to become awful crowded.

He was gone by the time I got out. To tell the truth, I'd kinda hoped it would be that way; there wasn't a conversation in the history of conversations that could help me figure out what'd just happened. Now, after a half-hour of hot water clarity, I had a distinct memory of him saying _"you won't have to take your pants off for me, get it?"_ Wonder whatever happened to that.

Luckily, in the months that followed, things managed not to get complicated. It was kinda like it'd never happened, which made me wonder if it ever would again. He wasn't bad, truth be told. Every first time is an uncomfortable situation, so maybe we'd be a bit more relaxed, the next time. In the meantime, we went on working together, in our separate way. I'd go out to meet people in dark glasses at nice cafes where they'd buy me lunch and I'd assure them that someone was about to get rubbed out, in their honor. Later on he'd go out to meet people who might even know Death was on his way to them, and he'd shake them off the face of the planet like a fly off a shirtsleeve. He was a Salesman, and I helped him sell.

There were times he'd be around the condo at the same time as me – like before, except this time I was totally aware of every glance he threw my way. If I wasn't careful, this could become a real serious case of poor judgment, over and over again. Instead of getting stiffed – in the 'payment' sense of the word – I'd get iced. In the 'murdered' sense of the word. I wanted to ask him if I was safe with him, and safe _from _him, but I was afraid I knew what the answer would be. I was pretty sure it wasn't his style to rescue the maiden, and I wasn't one anyway; I knew for a fact it _was_ his style to shoot one in the belly, and no matter how I scoured my memory I couldn't recall one time he'd claimed he wouldn't erase me. But he never really threatened me, so I couldn't tell exactly what calibre of mistake I'd made.

That house of cards stood for a while. One day I got up to find him sitting in that chair, a bowl of some exotic red fruit on the stand beside him. He was staring again, out over the veranda and into the city. He'd just done some job the day before; sometimes they don't go as smooth as he'd like. There were days he'd be out of his head for hours, thinking about whatever'd happened when he'd tried to make it go quick and easy, and someone had made it go hard and ugly instead. He looked like that today.

"Everything okay, hon?" I asked, closing up my robe without thinking.

"Yeah," he answered in that same foggy voice he'd used when he'd told me to go shower that night. "Brought you something to eat. Have you ever had pomegranate before?"

Must be the red stuff in the bowl. I shook my head.

The Salesman gestured to the couch beside his chair. "It's sweet. Red, like blood. Rumor has it, Hades got himself a wife with this."

"Is that so," I said. "Must have been some nice fruit."

He chuckled, and still didn't look at me. "It was a trick, actually. He took her away from the life she knew, kept her with him for a long time. Finally he said she could go back home, but for every seed she'd eaten with him, she'd have to spend one month a year back there. Underground."

My God, was I ever scared stiff by that little speech. I couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

"Have some," he said, finally looking me in the eye. "Eat the seeds, not the rest. Careful, though. It stains."

"Like blood," I guessed. He smiled an empty smile, and nodded. So I ate some, because he was a killer in an odd mood and I knew better than to try to outwit one of those. He was right, it was sweet. And it stained my lips and fingertips, because it's hard to get those tiny ruby seeds out without bursting a few. After a bit, he rose, on his way to his bedroom; as he passed me, he lifted my chin with his fingers.

"You look nice like that," he said. "Blood red lips."

I don't know if that was my cue or not, but it felt safer to act. I rose, eyes on him, and he left his fingers on my face, trailing over my cheek and lips. I don't think I've ever turned a trick I was so afraid of failing. He was armed this time, I could see a gun strapped under his jacket. I ignored it and reached up to him. He reacted without me having to pull; guess I was right to get up from the couch. He kissed me this time. We pushed and pulled aimlessly, both of us probably trying to decide where to do it. The floor's okay, once, but sometimes even commercial sex needs some fake romance. Finally, I guess we decided on his room, and we touched and fought our way there.

He was considerate again this time, making a very effective effort at pleasing me. I forced myself to relax, again, and was relieved when I felt myself warm up to it. My robe came off, leaving me naked and trembling against him; he was a handsome man, but it was largely fear. He took his jacket off, kept his gun on. Kissing blindly, tongue in mouth, I groped for it, to feel safer with it away from me. He caught my hand, harsh, pushed me back onto the bed. My heart beat a crazy sound in me. The times in my life that I've been this vulnerable never ended without pain. The days I was a child, in the orphanage; my first time with a man was before age ten. Then I escaped, onto the street, and was taken by a couple of drunk delinquents who hurt me, but not worse than that first guy. Then, rescued, to Old Town – into a life of pleasing strange men for money. It never bothered me, before that night when I lay out naked before the Salesman, with his pants undone and his hand on his weapon. Then, suddenly, all I had was regret for the life I'd lead all those years. I was a ruined girl, and there wasn't a chance in hell he'd let me live past my usefulness. I squeezed my eyes shut, prayed for a fast end, or a fast fuck. Whatever he had planned.

I heard him take a breath, and let it out without words. The bed shifted; I kept my eyes shut. Cold steel brushed against my jaw line, traced the still pink scar from that night a while back when I'd tried to come between a bad man and a young girl. He'd tried to cut my ear off for my trouble, and my fighting had saved the girl and cut my face instead. With a sickening lurch, I remembered the girl in question's face – Becky. She was dead now. No reminiscing over that night, when we'd escaped to the street and laughed with the madness of people who'd just outrun the devil. Miho took care of him. Took his ear off, too. Becky never knew about that part, though I'd meant to tell her about it. Thought she might get a kick out of it. I know I did.

That was all over now, everything was done for Becky, and I'd done that. Me and this devil on top of me. She really was a bit young – just like he'd said. He'd – _we'd ­– _killed her, all the same. All those years were catching up to me now, and I couldn't shut that down. It was a flood that escaped me in tears, surprisingly few for the chaos I felt.

When he entered me, I almost screamed, because for a split second I thought it was the gun instead of him. He went slow, and brushed fingers through my hair, and hushed me. I couldn't stop crying, and I think he liked that, and hated that he liked it. I moved with him again, steadying myself, wrapped my legs around his waist. Hated that I could do that, when I was feeling like this. We were two pros, but instead of conning each other, for a little while, we had the truth between us.

"Ssh, Cheri," he whispered. "It's okay."

I opened my bloodshot eyes to him. He looked into me, drowsily. "Harder," I said, softly.

He went harder, still slow, but hard. I urged him until it hurt, and he was taking pieces out of both of us with every movement. I clung to him, we were a life raft on an angry ocean, drowning. I think I scratched him, under his shirt, and it finally felt good – finally, this felt good.

When it was over he stayed with me for a while. My tears had dried, but I felt swollen all over. I couldn't read him. I was afraid to look at him, not because I thought he'd kill me now; because he'd see me, see how upset I'd been, maybe put the pieces together wrong. He called me _Cheri_, I realized. French for 'dear'. Pronounced it lazily, but still. He'd called me dear.

He stayed long enough for me to drift off just a bit. I was almost gone, or maybe I was gone and dreaming when he brushed back my fringe and kissed my forehead. I'd never felt anything like that before. Something just _nice_. Maybe I was asleep. The bed shifted again, and he left me under his covers. I slept like I'd been through a war, and he was gone again when I woke up.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Pomegranate Seed 6_**

The next day was another page out of an unusual book. The Salesman came back to the condo that afternoon, with no jobs in the pipeline. It'd been a while since I'd seen him two days in a row, regardless. He was out on the veranda in shirtsleeves, taking in the sunlight with a smoking cigarette in one hand.

"Care for one?" he asked me when I crept out there to meet him. I'd considered avoiding him, but I doubted that would go over well tomorrow. Plus I was barely dressed again. So much for not looking like a prostitute all the time.

"I don't smoke," I told him.

He turned away from the city, to me. "Y'know, the last three pretty ladies I offered a smoke to turned me down. I'm starting to wonder if I should be taking it personally."

I laughed a bit at that. Truth is, I used to smoke back in Old Town, but I'd quit since coming to work for him. Don't think I'd have been able to under different circumstances. "Bad for your health, y'know," I said.

He smiled and didn't answer. Looking back out over our Sin City, he spoke again. "Can I ask you a question, Cherry?"

"Sure, shoot."

"Why are you so goddamned terrified of me?"

That stopped me cold, in all seriousness. He'd done that before, but I'd never thought it'd been a problem for him. "Why do you say that?" I asked, thinking of maybe touching him to ease him, or bolting for the door. I did neither; I'd gladly wait 'til I could read him.

"Ah, come on, sugar. Guy like me can always tell."

"And a girl like me has to keep her guard up."

"It's more than your guard, Cherry. Last night –" he stopped, maybe seeing me stiffen for a second. He sighed. "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I wanted you to hurt me," I said, defensive.

"I know. I didn't mean to start that."

There was a silence, while I thought of the whole slide into this life. He had started it, at least this stretch of it. All that, _come work for me, _and _treat me like a customer_. Well, I'd done everything he'd asked, just like he wanted me to. Because I wanted a better life – and because he scared the hell out of me.

"Why did you?" I asked him.

He seemed a bit thrown off by the question. "Why…I don't know. I guess I liked you. You're a nice girl. You do your job well."

A laugh got out of me then, as I realized that I am damn good at that job of mine. He didn't look pleased by that reaction.

"I meant this one," he clarified. "Why, is that what this has been? You…working?"

It was the jolt of a lifetime to think that maybe he'd be offended by that. After requesting I 'do my job' on him, and I had, and he'd been only too pleased to initiate that again. Fuck me while I cried. That had happened before, but never with a guy who didn't realize what he was doing.

"Why, honey, do you care about me? That why you're asking?"

He took a harsh drag off his cigarette, tossed the rest into the concrete corner. A sharp breeze ruffled his hair, tugged at my robe. I shivered, not just because of the cold. "Sure I do," he said, absent as ever, not even looking at my face. He would have seen shock there, if he had. He looked like he was trying to figure it out himself. "I made a mistake."

I snorted, finally reading him right. "Yeah, I guess so. You can take the girl out of Old Town, but you can't take the Old Town out of the girl."

Now he looked at me, with that intensity that makes the dames he targets fall for that suggestion of strength. It seemed genuine. I bet it always does.

"That's not what I meant," he said, quiet. He started for the door back to the condo, but turned before he could make it. "I…I am sorry, Cheri. I made a mistake. Last night, I made a mistake. I'm sorry."

I shrugged him off, tried to get past him, but he stepped in my path. I shook my head, because I was afraid now if I opened my mouth more of last night's distress would come pouring out. He caught me, held me so I could see his face and he could see mine.

"I should have stopped," he said, firm. "I'm sorry. I'm…so sorry."

I ground my teeth to keep my eyes from overflowing. I nodded, tense. He wouldn't let me go. Touched a finger to my cheek, my scar, then cupped my face gently. This was a more vicious attack than any he'd made before.

"What do you want out of this, Cheri?" he asked softly. "Let me help you, what do you want?"

Let him suffer in my shoes for a minute, wondering what I want for a change. I didn't even know what I wanted, long-term. Right then what I wanted was off the veranda, into a nice warm bath. I looked deeper, though – maybe, I wanted to go home. If that was what I was after, even if it would get me killed, I'd tell him.

Old Town wasn't what I wanted, though. That home was over for me, now that I'd learned to live only having sex with one guy for money, or out of fear. And here he was claiming, in a vague sense, that I didn't have to fear him anymore. Craziest thing was, I believed him. If that fear of dying started to recede, maybe I'd see he wasn't such a bad guy. He probably used that tactic on all his pretty ladies right before he put a bullet or a blade in them, but I wanted to believe it, for a while. If only I knew whether I had ever read him right. In an effort at that, I kissed him.

It wasn't professional, not one pro to another. He could take pointers from real girls on how to kiss like a real guy, but I did believe him then. It was real enough. He was startled by it, didn't react right away. Then his arms curled around me, and he softened up. He wouldn't be armed now, not if there was a God in the sky. I'd had enough of that for a few days, at least.

He held me for a few minutes, then we went inside. We didn't have sex that night; I was tempted to try it just to make the feeling of being real go away, but he made absolutely no move on me. That was when I saw it – he felt for me. Maybe he hadn't before that first time, doing it on the carpet, but he did now. I had done my job right, too well, in fact. I didn't know why he'd started that rollercoaster at all, but I was sure he'd lost hold of his own heart soon enough. Thank God for that, I thought. Thank fucking God.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

_Pomegranate Seed 7_

After that, things were better, for a bit. I didn't lie awake nights thinking I'd hear his keys in the lock followed by a silenced gunshot to my head, for one. He did spend a bit more time at the condo with me, but not enough for us to be, y'know – together. I said before, I didn't know how to do that anyway. My social engagements were pretty much limited to his clients, which was fine. Bought me a lot of nice meals. Didn't have to try and talk about anythin but business with them either. He and I, we stayed in.

We'd watch movies sometimes, sometimes sleep together. I mean, we had sex; we both decided without deciding that to actually spend a whole night in the same bed would be hazardous to our health, if you know what I mean. There was a little while when sleeping with him felt okay, like what normal people might feel. More social than professional. But the Sin City dirt, it always finds its way back into you. It's just a matter of time.

For once, it wasn't me being constantly scared that changed things. I was okay, at the time. Safe in the knowledge that a guy wouldn't hurt a girl he cares for, right? Something changed with him. Sometimes I'd catch him throwing me more than a glance across the kitchen, and he stared out over the city a lot, introspective, you could say. When he looked at me, it was like he was trying to identify me, like…_what I was. _Flower, or animal? Nice girl he likes, or hooker he-?

I guess _he_ was scared, then. Looked good on him, let me tell you. That swept over to me soon enough, though – if he's examining himself, that could make him, what? Unstable? An unstable hitman, who pays you to keep his secrets, who's sleeping with you, and even you don't know if you do it for fun or fear or money. Dangerous, I'd say. I think we had a few nice months before I realized that him starting to feel for me made him a bigger powder keg than before. Not too long before he started to display that himself.

He didn't get jealous over me, or anything – like I said before, wasn't anyone for him to be jealous of. His way around me got a bit more violent, again, and I couldn't see a reason for it. Like the time he brought me the pomegranate, and said I looked nice with blood-red lips. This time I wasn't all that thrilled with it, the roughness; I told him to take it easy, once. He answered by putting a hand over my mouth, can you fucking imagine. I answered that by throwing him off me.

If there's one thing I learned in Old Town – I learned a lot, but this was important – it's how you _have_ to get out from under someone who's hurting you, if you can. Not always possible, but it was this time. He looked surprised, to say the least.

"You stay right there, hon," I said, when he got up. "I haven't been a hooker for almost a year."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't have to take it from you, right? Isn't that what you promised me, in your car, when you were trying to scare me, or canoodle me into coming here? Why did you want me so bad, anyway?"

He straightened. "I needed a girl who could take orders, and whores know how to keep secrets. It's the sort of thing that keeps you alive in this business; doing what you're told."

I laughed. Looking back, I can't believe my nerve. He obviously hadn't scared the tar out of me in a while. "Is that a threat? What are you going to do to me?" I moved toward him, and it was a foolish thing to do. He waited like a snake until I brazenly swaggered into his reach. Then, in the sort of flash you'd expect from a trained assassin, he had me on my back. Exactly where we'd started a minute ago, except this time he really had me.

"If you don't let me inside you, Cheri, I'll be disappointed. Maybe go out and find some other pretty gal to take care of me. And if you tell anyone any of my secrets, I'll kill you."

He waited a minute, maybe to drive the point home, but I don't think so. He looked at me, real close, eye to eye. Pro to pro. He was trying to decide; I know because I've seen that look before. Some johns, they don't know what they're going to do until they do it. He was like that, wondering how he'd feel after if he hurt me. If it was worth the demons he'd be bringing onto himself, because he felt different about me than anyone else, any other pretty gal he'd screwed or killed, or both. In him was a conflict, bigger than any I'd seen on a guy before. Those guys never gave a damn about me. He did, it seemed, and it was spooking him bad.

When he was done pinning me, he got up without doing anything more. In one careless glance back to the bed as he left the room, I saw something real big in him. We had ourselves a problem.

* * *

_Thanks for reading thus far! Please review when you do, it keeps me going. _

_See you again soon, guys and gals._

-nH


	8. Chapter 8

_Pomegranate Seed 8  
_

It was then that I started to seriously consider leaving.

Oh, it would be no easy thing, of course; taking off after working for a hitman, as an ex-hooker, means changing your name, your face, anything you can. It would be fastest to disappear back into Old Town, but he'd find me there. Be the first place he'd look. He'd probably cut a bloody path all the way to whatever door I was hiding behind. Plus, I was done hooking, I told myself. No more sex for money, and no more for fear either – that meant no more sex with him, unless I wanted to, and did I really want to? Would I want to again, if the opportunity presented itself? I was planning to leave him, eventually. Probably be best to keep a distance until then.

Unless he could see through that. From what I'd seen in him as he left that night, I wasn't sure how clearly he was seeing anything, but that's a heck of a chance to take with a killer. That was frustrating – no more dubious sex, right, until _after _this one guy. It's hard to change your life that way. I realized too that I'd been a hooker all this time – like he'd said the first night, I was his. Not sharing myself with dozens other men didn't make me feel better about professionally screwing this one. For the millionth time in my life, I decided I had no choice. If he wanted it, I'd have to give it to him. For now.

In the meantime, I checked and re-checked my weapons around the condo. With the extra time he'd been spending there, he must know about some of it, I thought. Except the really creative stuff, places I never saw him look, where he never hung out alone. As far as I knew. I suddenly saw that there were often big chunks of time when I wasn't there at all, when he could have stopped by and found all my secret defenses. That made me decide to take a page from his book, and arm myself at all times. As long as I was wearing clothes, I'd be wearing a knife or a gun too. Maybe some brass knuckles for good measure.

If he got any ideas about me leaving, he didn't show it. We went on like we were, occasionally making it in his bedroom, usually not seeing each other more than once a week. After that near-violent incident, he toned it down a bit, but I could still sense whatever was needling him sticking under his skin. He warmed up again after a couple weeks, anyway. Even if he did think to look around the place for escape plans, I didn't know where to begin, which left him nothing to find.

Pretty soon I got to thinking things would be okay, until they wouldn't anymore. You know what I mean, you wait to make your break until something, something _really_ awful happens. It's easy to do that. I got by in Old Town ten years doing things that way. I could have died there too, many times. This was no different; you make yourself numb to the danger, sometimes, until either you buy it or it bites you hard enough that you get reminded. Some godawful thing happens to you, and you get reminded.

* * *

_Hi, and thanks for reading again! Sorry it's so ridiculously short. I'll give you something longer soon!_

-_nH_


	9. Chapter 9

_Pomegranate Seed 9  
_

It was snowing when my reminder came. Just like when I was young, except I could watch it from a nice warm room now instead of standing in it with barely any clothes on. It was pretty. I liked my life like this, I thought. No more cold nights on the street. Someday I'd have to do something about this guy, this lovestruck killer, but for now it's alright.

He caught up to me at a meeting that night to prove me wrong.

I was with a potential client at this trendy black and white place downtown – nice dinner, if you can swing it. It was a lady this time, some rich wife who wanted her husband dead. I wasn't sure why, but it wasn't my place to know, as long as they could pay. When the business was done and we were on the dessert course – I could have sworn she hit on me, but I wasn't one to put my neck on the line for a maybe – he showed up. It was quite sudden, and I wasn't sure if I was supposed to act like I knew him or what. I just stared at him, shocked with a strawberry halfway to my mouth. Incidentally, my lipstick was pomegranate red.

"Time's up," he whispered in my ear. He pulled my chair out. I rose, glancing at the client, who looked as shocked as I was.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you," I said to her automatically, sticking out my hand. She shook it, and that was the deal. He'd be icing her husband tonight or tomorrow morning, and then we'd be a whole lot wealthier. Providing, of course, that my time being up didn't mean what it usually meant when a hitman said it. He didn't even look at the woman as he took my hand in his arm and lead me to the coatroom. As we left I didn't look back either.

He took me right past the coat check, actually, and went to the car idling outside. "My jacket," I said as he opened the passenger door.

"You don't need it," he answered. The hell I didn't – I was wearing a more extravagant version of the black swing dress I'd worn when we'd met, and that didn't leave much to imagine, let alone keep me warm. Too bad he looked like he meant business. I bid my winter coat goodbye and got into the car.

"What's this about?" I asked once we were moving. This smacked of a bad date – the kind that left you breathless if you were lucky, bloodless if you weren't. I'd been in moving cars before, where the end of the road was supposed to be a grave; once it nearly was, 'til I was saved by Gail. He wasn't headed to Old Town now though, and there was no one waiting to save me.

He was driving awfully fast. The Salesman opened his mouth, then shut it. On a regular guy, it wouldn't have shaken me like it did on him. He was unsure again – and that hadn't gone too well for me in the past.

"Hades," he said, finally. "The wife's name was Persephone."

"Took her from everything she knew," I continued, hollowly. He nodded.

"To make her love him. He tried everything, but finally he just had to do it – trick her into coming back every year, even though she hated him."

"That's awful," I said, before I thought about it.

"That's devotion," he countered. "And it's awful. It's making a girl his, against will and emotion, it's proving his place and her place. See?"

It was like fucking her forever and ever; yeah, I saw. It was some kind of nightmare mythology where this was okay, but I saw that it was okay here too. Like Old Town, it's okay to make sex some other thing, like commerce or violence. Or proving your place. In my most naïve hopes, I decided I didn't see how it related to us, on this snowy road in this dark car.

"He rapes her," I said. It came out as a gasp, because I didn't mean for it to come out at all. Ever since I'd met him, I'd been saying things I never intended. Of course he rapes her, of course; why did I have to say it out loud, was I out of my fucking mind?

The Salesman sighed, deeply, and looked over to me in the passenger seat. It was dark enough that I couldn't see his face completely, like the first time I'd been in his car, when he'd tricked me into coming down into the underworld with him.

"Sorry," he said. Then he lashed out with something heavy in his hand, and my head snapped back. And everything went black.

* * *

_Hey ladies and gents! Thanks again for reading, and as usual I apologise for the oceans of time between updates. Don't be afraid to leave a review - reviews are like crack for fanfic writers. _

_Cheers!_

_-nH._


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